


Sleep No More

by NineWheels



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Lovecraftian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:39:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineWheels/pseuds/NineWheels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A re-telling of Macbeth from the Thane of Ross's point of view, emphasizing the supernatural horror elements. Inspired by, and I suppose in part an homage to, the works of H.P. Lovecraft. Working title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I make no claims to historical accuracy here. I have only a vague knowledge of medieval Scotland, and have invented or guessed freely in many places while writing this story. Some few facts of geography have been researched, but anachronistic references to elements of culture are bound to appear. I have also made some alterations and additions to the action as depicted in Shakespeare's play, but the play is still my one source. This is an adaptation and reinterpretation of that story.

A Prelude

I am not a man of great learning; my father taught me to be alert attentive to the world around me, and my God blessed me with a quicker mind than borne by most other men, but if I said I was a proper learned man, I would be deceiving you. Scotland is a rough land yet. South of us, sure it seems, live lords pampered and comfortable and stable enough in their living to allow more time for education. I, however, despite being a Thane myself, have had precious little time to spend with tutors and scholars and such. So have I made do with gathering my knowledge from whatever sources I have to hand, piecing together what limited understanding I have of the rest of the world.

Perhaps the account I’m setting down here would be better done by some English scholar, or some sage from the East, or any number of other men more qualified to judge what it all means. But as things stand, I am the one in whose lap these horrors have fallen, and though I might try to shove the responsibility off upon some other poor soul from amidst my countrymen, it seems that this is my story to tell.

However, though I am destined to be the teller of this story, as far as its events go I had little to contribute. Most of my part is simply as one among many witnesses to the various portions of this horrific whole, and the rest was as a glorified messenger, bearing news to the figures history will actually remember.

Foremost among these, for the purposes of my story, is that Tyrant and Usurper, the false king Macbeth. It is his writings in which the most of this story is based. Some, indeed many, would say that any testimony from his diseased mind is hardly something to be taken for truth, especially given that much of it is from his final days when madness seemed to have completely overtaken him. However, I have reason to credit these tales as more than the mere ravings of a lunatic murderer.

I am counted among the proud brotherhood of Thanes who served under the command of King Malcolm and his uncle Siward at the Battle of Dunsinane during which Macbeth was overthrown and slain, and the throne restored to its rightful possessor. But neither I nor anyone else among our host actually saw the mad tyrant killed, save for the man who did the deed himself: Macduff, my cousin, and the Thane of Fife.

Should I live decades more still and grow into an old man, should I live long enough to feel the decaying power of time corrupt my mind and then forget everything—the color of the sky, my mother’s face, my own name—I shall never forget the sight of my kinsman staggering back out from Dunsinane’s deepest dungeon, caked in mud and gore, smelling of something fouler than anything God ever put on this Earth, his stained sword gripped loosely in one hand and the barely recognizable head of the Usurper in the other, and croaking out in a hoarse whisper belonging to a dead thing, “The tyrant is dead”.

He never spoke a word to me, nor anyone else to my knowledge, about what transpired in the time between his descent into that dungeon in pursuit of Macbeth and his return. That part of the story is lost to us—perhaps that is truly for the best.


	2. Chapter 2

I will not make any assumptions about how much you, anonymous reader, do or do not know about the history behind which lurks the core of my dreadful tale, so forgive me if I restate some well-known facts in the interest of clarity.

Thane of Glamis prior to his treacherous ascension to the throne, Macbeth was also perhaps the greatest warrior Scotland has seen, at least within the lifetimes of those who knew him. I never served alongside him, being not much of a soldier myself, but I can tell you that he had a cunning way with strategy, and an inspiring delight in the prospect of a good fight. It has been said that some of his battles were won due to sheer bravado on the part of his men, bolstered as it was by his own charismatic battle-fervor. He was well-loved and renowned for this talent, and held his generalship from a young age and for a number of years.

It may well be that here we find the motive behind Macbeth’s fall to villainy. As a formidable leader in the field, and a cherished companion of noble King Duncan, there were certain whisperings that the crown might one day pass to him. Such was an old way among our people, still deeply rooted—the crown must pass to the man who proves himself strong enough to lead Scotland. However, good Duncan was of the newer way, the holier way, dictating the importance of bloodlines in the passage of the Kingship. So it was his own eldest son Malcolm, scarcely more than an unproven boy at the time, upon whom he bestowed the title Prince of Cumberland, naming him his heir.

This pronouncement came during the celebratory feast immediately following our victory over the invaders from Norway and their ally Macdonwald, the treacherous Thane of Cawdor. It was truly a victory worth celebrating, for we had crushed our enemies in one fell swoop even as they rose against us, and much was due to Macbeth.

They had divided their forces with intent to catch us off-guard, with Macdonwald attacking from the West leading hired arms from Ireland while the Norwegian King Sweno led his fleet in assault upon Fife in the East. It made no matter their strategies, however; both armies were defeated easily. I for my part was in Fife with my cousin Macduff, where he led the defense against the Norwegian ships. There were our numbers the greatest, for there it was we best anticipated the host of Norway to attack.

Following this, I rode westward to inform the King of Norway’s timely surrender. By the time I had arrived in Lennox, Macbeth, along with his most trusted comrade General Banquo, had already won his own victory against Macdonwald’s kerns and gallowglasses, and had personally slain the former Thane of Cawdor himself. Thus had the day been won.

King Duncan, overwhelmed with gratitude for his seeming faithful and noble Thane of Glamis, declared that Macbeth should inherit the lands and titles of Cawdor now left behind by the dead traitor. Macbeth and Banquo had, in their righteous wrath, pursued their fleeing foes some couple miles further north. The King commanded the Thane of Angus and myself to find him and deliver this happy news, rather than sending mere soldiers, so that the message might be delivered in a manner of dignity and prestige.

So there Angus and I went in search of them to deliver the King’s message. The day bore no signs of sharing in Scotland’s celebration, the sky being especially grey and clouded, and there was with it a heavy fog on the moor whereupon we found Macbeth and Banquo.

I have described Macbeth already, but I have neglected to do the same for Banquo, the figure in this story perhaps the most mysterious to me even still. He was not high-born, but was already an experienced soldier when he and Macbeth, ten years his junior, met and befriended each other on the battlefield. His reputation as a skilled soldier grew with that of his comrade, and he rose to a station. For all that, Banquo never seemed to be a man who especially desired the glory and honors bestowed upon him. He was cordial and well-spoken in conversation, but quiet, usually letting Macbeth speak on his behalf amidst the gentry. The impression he gave was that of a man of simple pleasures, in this case good food and fierce battle. Being thus laconic, he failed to entertain much interest from the other Thanes, but he and Macbeth seemed to have a lively fraternal bond.

When we came upon the two of them upon the heath, it seemed to me that they were distracted by something, though I could not tell what. I relayed the news of Scotland’s victory and Macbeth’s new-granted titles, whereupon both men became, it seemed, almost alarmed. Nothing I said was especially surprising, given the terrific victory they themselves were responsible for, but it still seemed to take them aback a bit. They both tried to hide their surprise, Banquo more successfully than Macbeth. I observed this behavior as odd, as did my companion of Angus, but Banquo assured us that his partner’s distraction was nothing that would not pass. And so it did, as the four of us rode for Forres. I wouldn’t know what had passed in that lonely, grey place upon that day until months later, when I found Macbeth’s written account of these events in the King’s Chambers at Dunsinane after his death.

It is easy to look at this encounter in retrospect and note the abnormality that foreshadowed future ill deeds, but there’s no second-guessing at this point. What’s done is done. Yet it does chill the blood to think what strange occurrences I’ve encountered more recently and failed to take note of, which may forewarn terrible things still to come.


End file.
